Night Side of the River

‘I miss you,’ I say. He smiles and stirs his coffee even though he doesn’t take sugar. ‘It’s just a feeling,’ I say. ‘There’s no need to be afraid of it.’ That’s how it was. Me, trying to get him to feel. Him, living in the penthouse of his body; his mind. Wonderful views. No connection to what went on lower down. Empty rooms. Boarded windows. Lock

What did Albert Camus say? It’s not one thing or the other that leads to madness; it’s the space in between them. I’m living in a space between lives – my past and my future. I’m living in a space between worlds. How could I not feel like a crazy woman?

For the Dead, time stops. For the living, time slows. I am in slow-motion now. It takes me twice as long to clean my teeth, half the morning to make coffee and wash the cup. When I go shopping, I don’t remember what I need.

No Ghost Ghost Story What kind of a ghost story has no ghost? Towards the end of your life, you promised me that if it were possible, you would send a sign, a sign to let me know that somewhere out there is the person I love. A person recognisable as you. I am sitting at my garden table watching the night. As I type this, I hope the keyboard starts

In the kitchen, the counter-lights are on low. The fridge hums. The radio is playing. I listen. It’s one of those shock-jock radio hosts. Conspiracy. Aliens. Vaccines. John’s late-night listening. On the table there’s a bottle of Pinot Noir and a half-drunk glass. John’s jacket hangs over the chair.

Samuel Pepys, diarist of the Plague, chronicler of the Great Fire of London, wrote about Spitalfields – the name itself pointing backwards to the leper hospital in medieval times. That site became the vast fruit and veg market roaring into life at 4am every morning except Sunday. In fact, my own house used to belong to an oranges importer. There wa

Shoes off. Kettle on. Tea in pot. And I say, out loud, ‘It’s over.’ Without any prompt, at volume, from the Sonos speaker, a song John liked to play: Dream a little dream of me … ‘Alexa! Stop the song!’

On the walk together, we experienced the phenomenon that lovers who are not yet lovers recognise; they are not touching, yet they feel the charge. The space in between is filled with energy. The spark. The dance. The movement. The wave and particle that is everywhere and nowhere, because nothing else is. The strangeness of that early time is common

How could I not go on talking to you? How could I not expect to see you when it’s the end of the day? Our life together was many things, concrete, tangible things, that included bacon, potatoes, coffee and toothpaste, but it was also a pattern. We had flow, colour, texture. We were the originators and makers of the shared life that we worked on eve